True Love Is
by Kaoru.and.Hikaru
Summary: Klavier/Apollo . Short stories involving Klavier and Apollo based on silly love quotes.
1. A is for amaranthine

Genre: Romance/Tragedy

Inspired by a quote from

www. boardofwisdom. com/default.asp?topic1005&listnameLove

**Only You**

Klavier sped down the open stretch of deserted road, Apollo clinging tightly to his waist.

"How fast are we going?!" Apollo yelled over the roar of the motorcycle and the air whizzing by their ears.

"Just over 100," Klavier called back. Apollo could hear the smile in his voice, but he couldn't take it any more.

"Slow down, Klavier! We're going to fast!" He clung tighter, "I don't want anything to happen!"

"Trust me, ja?" Klavier shouted, "I know what I'm doing, and you're having fun right?"

"To be honest, no, I'm not," Apollo buried his head in the other man's back, "I…I'm scared, Klavier, please stop…!"

"Tell me you love me."

"I LOVE YOU! I really do, Klavier! Now, please!" Apollo begged.

"Give me a hug." Apollo hugged him tighter than he ever had before, "and could you do me a favour? Take my helmet off for me and put it on you, I want to feel the wind for a while." Apollo complied.

The next morning, Phoenix picked up the newspaper and thumbed through it. He stopped on an article that caught his eye. A motorcycle had crashed into a building the other night due to a break malfunction. One of the passengers sustained serious (but not fatal) injuries and was getting immediate medical attention; the second passenger did not survive.

He put his coat on and walked to the hospital to visit Apollo. He wanted to cry, but he knew he couldn't, for Apollo's sake.


	2. B is for benevolent

Smile Like You Mean It

**Smile Like You Mean It**

Apollo was having an altogether _shitty day_.

First he lost his papers—court files, mind you—when he was riding his bike to the agency, and had to ride back until he found them. Upon which he discovered that half of them were soggy—storm drain—and some had multiple footprints on them. Just picking the papers up was difficult, for it was time for most LA residents to go to work, which some preferred to do by walking—someone even stepped on his hand!

Cradling his hand he arrived back at the office in a less-than-satisfactory-mood for both additional occupants, who immediately dove into plots to brighten it. It's not that he didn't appreciate the fruitless attempts of Mr. Wright and his daughter; it just wasn't the best of time for him to humor their silly antics.

Then, of course, with each failed attempt, the next was more desperate. Mr. Wright, having given up some time ago, rested idly on the couch listening to Trucy, who would not give Apollo the satisfaction of silence; not, at least, until he smiled, at which point Trucy would be satisfied that he wasn't upset anymore.

"Go home, Apollo," Mr. Wright smirked knowingly from the couch, "you're making the atmosphere too depressing."

Mr. Wright's smirk pissed him off; what did he know that Apollo didn't? "Alright, Mr. Wright." Meaning the pun fully—with the most insult someone like him could possibly throw at anyone—he smiled; a strained, forced smile. So forced, he hoped, that both Trucy and Mr. Wright saw what a horrible mood Apollo was in and thought it in their best interest to stay away from him for the rest of the day or so. Far away.

Either way, he left, with disarming protests from Trucy—reluctant to let him escape from her constant joking, in hopes that he would laugh off his bad mood—which were ultimately silenced, one after another, by Mr. Wright, with one worded arguments; the man hadn't been a lawyer for nothing, he supposed. Nonetheless, he escaped unscathed, silently grateful to Mr. Wright—who had excused him from such a tiring situation—but still wondered _why_ he had done it.

All previous thought vanished, however, when he discovered his apartment door ajar. Did he leave it open this morning? He really hoped not. All he needed was to find his house robbed or left a complete mess—which, thought he didn't like to admit it, seemed more likely seeing as he didn't have anything of much value in his home—neither of which would be helpful to his mood, and neither of which would particularly surprise him, considering his luck thus far.

It wouldn't help, he knew, to stand there gaping. He'd best go in and see the damage. His apartment door opened with an antagonizingly loud creak. He slipped off his shoes and set them next to a pair, which he knew for certain, did _not_ belong to him.

"Herr Forehead?" came a distressed—yet still, Apollo thought amusedly, very sexy—voice from the kitchen, "Is that you?"

"Klavier?" Apollo called in response—and reassurance—slightly confused. "Aren't you supposed to be working?" He started toward the kitchen.

A frantic blonde, however, kept him from entering. "I took the day off. I quickly got bored so I decided to come and wait for you."

Apollo smiled—it didn't reach his eyes—at his boyfriend; he took notice of something odd. "Why are you in a pink apron?" He raised an eyebrow with a pleased smirk.

Klavier had obviously forgotten he was in such a thing, and blushed as he quickly attempted to untie the back. "It was…Kristoph's," he mumbled.

Apollo chuckled. "That doesn't explain why you're in it though," he smiled at the flustered, German prosecutor, "or why you apparently can't get it off."

With a grace he wasn't accustomed to having, Apollo slid behind the blonde and, giving the knot a few deft tugs, had the apron off Klavier faster than the prosecutor could have gotten it off himself. He took this opportunity to glance behind him, seeing as the taller man wouldn't let him before, into the kitchen to come across a sight he couldn't help but laugh at.

Klavier, having remembered that he didn't want Apollo looking into the kitchen just yet, spun around on his heels. "What are you laughing at?!" His cheeks puffed in a pout. "It was supposed to be a surprise for you!"

Apollo chuckled lightly, "Oh really? I didn't know you couldn't cook, Klavier." He started to laugh again.

Klavier crossed his arms over his chest. "I _can_ cook," he insisted; "your kitchen is just… awkward."

"I'm sure." Apollo calmed down and began to clean up the mess left by his boyfriend in an attempt to bake something that appeared to look similar to a cake.

A cat-like grin broke Klavier's pout. He strode forward and wrapped his arms around the younger man's waist. "Glad to see your mood's improved."

"Hmm?" Apollo rested the sponge he had been using on the counter when he turned to reply to his lover's comment.

"I'm just glad you're not upset anymore," Klavier smiled beautifully. Apollo shouldn't have been surprised that Klavier had noticed something as trivial as his mood, but he did, and it made him feel happy, even _special_.

"Yeah, I guess," Apollo leaned back against Klavier and the couple stayed like that for a moment.

"Hey, Apollo?"

"Yeah?" Apollo heard the grin in his voice, and couldn't help but wonder what he was up to.

"Lemme see your hand." Without waiting for a reply, Klavier took hold of Apollo's hand from where it rested on his own and held it out in front of them. "Do you know why you have spaces between your fingers?"

Apollo knew that whatever answer he could come up with wouldn't be satisfactory for the prosecutor, so he just shook his head. Klavier's fingers intertwined with his own.

"That's why."

Apollo chuckled and placed a kiss on his boyfriend's cheek, with the full intention to add _'Why thank you, Klavier, I never would have known.'_ Until, that is, Klavier dragged him over to the couch, after which coherent thought was no longer possible.

Okay, so maybe his day wasn't _that_ shitty.


End file.
